


My Hands

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Season/Series 09, sam nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 05:44:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1676900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fanfic recounting Sam’s nightmares in the weeks and months following Gadreel and how they bring back fears and memories from other times his hands have been used to hurt people he loves against his will. It does however have a slightly hopeful ending and I might have accidentally (not so) subtly Sam/Jess-ed (sorry not sorry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still upset that we weren’t actually shown Sam’s nightmares about Gadreel killing Kevin, or at least the him waking up from them. So I wrote this in order to upset myself even more, I might have cried writing this.
> 
> This is also the first fic I've written in a couple of years and my first Supernatural fic; so feedback very gratefully appreciated!

Sam jerks awake with a ragged gasp; his body flinging itself bolt upright as the last of the nightmare washes over him. He fights hard to steady his breathing, to slow his pounding, thudding heart and finds himself glancing down as his hands, held out in front of him. For a moment at the corner of his gaze they look as though they are stained red; he feels the panic rising again and forces it down muttering “it wasn’t you, it wasn’t you” desperately under his breath, willing his subconscious to believe. He finds that he can calm himself quicker than he could a week ago, well, Sam thinks bitterly “practice makes perfect after all”.

This was hardly the first time in the months since Gadreel that Sam had awoken desperately afraid of what he’d done, seeing the scene playing out before him over and over again. His hands reaching out before him, towards Kevin who just stood there looking so trusting, feeling the white hot tendrils of grace coarse through his body, through his palms and fingertips, and finally into Kevin, he feels the power rip through Kevin’s body, burning him out from the inside. And he smells the stench of seared flesh and sees the lifeless, black, hollowed out sockets staring back at him.

Those are the easy nights. Some nights the memories of Gadreel and Kevin are intermingled, no, almost like, over-layered with other memories, other people using his hands. Some nights the hands reaching toward Kevin curl into a fist and there is Dean before him, his face battered and broken and Sam’s knuckles are stained red with blood from the lacerations they’ve carved into his brother. For a moment he feels the rush as he takes back control, his fingers unfurling. But that’s ripped from him and now he feels Jo beneath his fingers, his hand pressing upon her, pressing her down, forcing themselves over her body. And he feels trapped and desperate, every inch of his skin is crawling and he wants to make it stop, make his hands stop, but he can’t, he’s locked away and powerless.

When he awakes on these nights, there’s no amount of calm breathing or attempts at affirmations of his innocence that can fight against the rising bile in his throat and Sam races to the bathroom, infinitely glad that his room is far enough away from Dean’s that he won’t risk waking him and facing interrogation. He retches, dry and heaving for the most part, he’s been neglecting food even more than usual lately. For a minute or so he stays like that, on his knees, clutching the edge of the bowl for support, feeling so utterly pathetic. The nausea’s fading now, but his hands still feel dirty. He clambers up and almost in a daze makes his way across to the sink, scrubbing his hands with soap and scolding hot water until they are red and somewhat raw, but he hardly notices. The only thought in his mind is that maybe, somewhere under all that dirt and filth there is something else, not good or clean, he could never hope to scrub that deep but something that at least feels like it’s still him.

Then one night, a different pair of hands appears. Soft and warm and so gentle, they reach to caress his face, to smooth through his hair and Sam can hear, distantly, a low, muttering voice, “shh, it’s alright, it’s ok”. He wants so desperately to take those hands and hold then in his own, but he doesn’t, he can’t, he doesn’t want to taint those hands that way. But they reach out anyway and take Sam’s hands between their own and for a moment he feels it, what he’s been searching for, his hands feel like his and his alone, like they belong to him again. The soft distant voice whispers “see they’re just as I remember, just as they always were, so gentle, so kind, that never changed Sam, never.”

Though the nightmares still come after that, that are fainter somehow, less raw and when Sam wakes and looks down at his hands he would almost swear he feels another set of fingers gentle entwining with his own and reminding him and somehow it makes it just that little bit easier.


End file.
